The Coroner
Dr. Burgess, the Clark County coroner, was tall and gaunt, his pallor almost ghostly, as if his work with the deceased had somehow rubbed off on him.
I recognized his name from the preliminary autopsy report.
His spiky reddish-brown hair stood upright, a cartoonish halo around his receding hairline.
His thin lips formed a straight line, devoid of emotion as he glanced at me.
Dylan Mitchell walked toward the stand with a measured pace.
The courtroom remained silent, anticipation thick in the air.
Over the past few days, I’d learned something about courtroom spectators—they acted like a hive, their emotions ebbing and flowing in sync, like an orchestra playing to the batons of the two counselors and the judge.
“Dr. Burgess, you conducted the autopsy on Winston Donovan. Can you describe your findings for the court?” Mitchell’s voice was steady, with grim undertones.
Dr. Burgess nodded, his voice calm and clinical.
“Mr. Donovan’s cause of death was a massive coronary event, induced by methamphetamine.
The substance was introduced into his system through spiked eye drops, which triggered the heart attack.
This was a sudden and violent reaction, leading to his almost immediate death. ”
Mitchell leaned in slightly. “Was there any other evidence on Mr. Donovan’s body that might indicate foul play?”
Dr. Burgess paused. “Yes, there was a bruise on Mr. Donovan’s left temple. However, it was superficial, likely caused by a minor impact during the fall.”
“Is it possible the victim was subdued with the blow, then given the eye drops?” Mitchell followed.
“Objection!” Colton said, standing abruptly. “Calls for speculation.”
“Overruled,” Judge Antunez replied curtly.
“It’s possible, yes, but the blow was relatively minor, possibly just a punch to the head. If subdued by it, the victim wasn’t subdued for long.”
The public murmured, the implication of a struggle hanging in the air. Mitchell let the tension build before pressing on. “Was there any other significant forensic evidence discovered during the autopsy?”
Dr. Burgess’s eyes scanned the jury as he continued. “Yes. We found epithelial cells—skin cells—under Mr. Donovan’s fingernails. Upon further analysis, these cells were identified as belonging to Olivia Taylor.”
The public gasped in unison with me. Next to me, Colton stiffened. My skin, under his fingernails? How?
Mitchell straightened his tie, his tone firm. “And what does this suggest, Dr. Burgess?”
The coroner’s voice remained even. “Skin cells under the fingernails can sometimes indicate a struggle, where victims try to defend themselves. However, given the other evidence, it’s not definitive.”
“No more questions for this witness, Your Honor.” Mitchell’s chair grated against the floor when he sat.
Colton rose, smoothing his tie, his expression intense as he approached for cross-examination.
“Dr. Burgess, you testified that Olivia Taylor’s skin cells were found under Mr. Donovan’s fingernails. Can you specify how many cells were discovered?”
Dr. Burgess hesitated for a brief moment before answering. “It was only a few cells—one or two, to be precise.”
“So, not entire swatches of skin like one would find after a battle, correct?”
“No, only a few cells.”
“What scenario could explain their presence under the victim’s fingernails?”
“Well, self-defense is the most common scenario where we find skin under a victim’s fingernails.”
“In your professional opinion, could the presence of just a couple of cells be explained by a less violent interaction—say, a kiss?” Colton threw me a quick, dark glance. I shivered. “Or an embrace? Lovemaking, perhaps?”
“Objection, Your Honor! Leading the witness.”
“Overruled.” Antunez turned toward the coroner. “You may answer, Doctor.”
“The minimal number of cells could be consistent with casual contact, like during a kiss or an embrace. It doesn’t necessarily indicate a struggle.”
A wave of whispers moved through the courtroom, a mix of surprise and doubt lingering like a dark shadow. Colton didn’t miss the shift in energy. He nodded, satisfied.
“Dr. Burgess, considering the number of cells found, would you say this scenario is more likely or less likely than self-defense?”
“More likely,” the coroner replied without a hint of hesitation. “Definitely more likely.”
“No more questions, Your Honor.”
I closed my eyes and saw myself in that elevator, Winston’s hands in my hair, pulling me close—
“I said no tears,” Colton whispered coldly in my ear as he took his seat.
I touched my face with the tips of my fingers, making the tears disappear while Dr. Burgess vacated the stand.
I wanted to scream at Colton, to ask why he couldn’t forgive me.
But I already knew the answer. In his words, I was the one he still loved.
Finding out what I’d done must’ve gutted him. The damage was beyond repair.
“The prosecution calls Avery Sinclair,” Mitchell’s strong voice announced.
A flicker of a smile landed on the prosecutor’s lips when our eyes met.
I looked away, following Colton’s instructions, and fixed my gaze on the seal above the judge’s head while the bratty teenager was sworn in.
Bracing myself for one more piece of evidence that would reveal premeditation in targeting Winston, I kept a stoic appearance.
Soon, it would be all over.
And those twelve people sitting in the jury box could decide that the world would be a better place without me in it.